


Maybe Not Yet

by DoAsYouWill



Series: Stories To Read When You Hate Everything and Wanna Die [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: I tried to make this as in character as possible despite the lack of plausibility, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoAsYouWill/pseuds/DoAsYouWill
Summary: Maybe it’s still real. Maybe he still loves me. He still tells me he does, and he still does the same romantic and sweet things that he’s always done, but I don’t think I can trust any of it. How can I? Not when I know where he’s been.





	Maybe Not Yet

I know where he’s been. 

I’ve known for so long, and I’m pretty sure he knows that I know. He comes home from work, and he has that same smile on his face. The smile I fell in love with when I was sixteen -- the one that lifts his paper thin lips and makes his blue eyes shine. Because he only looks at _ me _ like that. Never anyone else -- to everyone else, he glares, and he huffs, and he snorts, and he’s a sarcastic dick. Only _ I _ get to see his normally dull eyes turn bright. Only me, and it’s been like that since we were teenagers. 

I’m not a successful person. I work as a barista at a coffee shop, pulling 12-16 hour shifts, 4 days a week. It’s a boring job, and I get yelled at a lot, and it’s not rewarding at all. But I’m only at that job because it’s the only way to support my other job as a musician. Which is a shit gig. So, there’s two unsuccesses in my life right there.

But somehow managing to get Craig Tucker to fall in love with me? 

Yeah, I have _ no _idea how I did that, but I am so proud of myself, and whatever I did to make it happen. He’s one of the few aspects of my life that hasn’t crumbled underneath me, and I have no idea how I would make it through without him. 

I love him so much. So much it fucking hurts, it _ fucking hurts_. He’s got my heart clutched in his hands, and it’s like every day, his grip gets tighter and tighter, and that’s not supposed to happen. Isn’t love supposed to fade the older you get? Isn’t it supposed to become routine and less special? Isn’t it supposed to lose it’s novelty and become dull and just another part of life that’s just _ there_, but doesn’t do anything beyond exist? 

But mine gets stronger and stronger, which means it hurts more and more, especially because I’m becoming less and less sure that everything’s okay. 

I mean, maybe it’s still real. Maybe he still loves me. He still tells me he does, and he still does the same romantic and sweet things that he’s always done, but I don’t think I can trust any of it. How can I? Not when I _ know _where he’s been. 

I sigh, turning the faucet on with a little more rigour that is probably necessary, and watch with dulled eyes as hot water pours down into the pot resting precariously on the midsection of the sink. I’m making spaghetti. It’s not Craig’s favorite, and it’s not mine either, but it’s food and it’s easy and I’m tired. 

Craig’s favorite is my meatloaf. Figures he’d like something so standard and boring. There’s not even anything all that special about it, but maybe that’s why Craig likes it. He likes things that aren’t special, because special strays from ordinary, and Craig’s _ all _about ordinary. 

Really makes me wonder sometimes. 

I shake my head. That’s dangerous thinking. Puts me in a bad place, and, even though Craig texted me earlier today to say that his boss asked him to stay late, (which just shot a bullet straight through my heart to read), it’s already 6:15. He normally gets out of work at 5:30, so hopefully he’s going to be home soon. 

_ Hopefully_. He never answered me when I asked how long it was going to take, so I don’t know when to expect him. 

When Craig first told me he loved me, we were eighteen, and it was on our graduation day. I almost cried I was so happy, because Craig was the first good thing that ever happened to me, and, now that I’m twenty-six and dreading waking up in the morning, I’m pretty confident in saying that he’s basically the _ only _good thing that’s ever happened to me. 

Every time things get kinda bad, I think about that moment. It was a few hours after the graduation ceremony, and we had just had sex for probably the millionth time since we started dating. We were in my bed, because my parents were always weirdly accepting of my relationship, and would sometimes leave the house entirely whenever Craig came over. Craig was cuddling into me, basking in the afterglow, and he started kissing my neck and rubbing circles into my waist, and then he said it. Just fucking said it, like it was no big deal, but it was a big deal to me, and it was a big deal to him, too. I could tell, because he was hanging onto me extra tight, and his fingers trembled just enough for me to notice. 

It was perfect. 

I had told Craig I loved him when we were seventeen, on his birthday. I didn’t expect him to repeat it back to me, and he didn’t. But he smiled at me, his eyes warm and soft, and, even if he didn’t love me then, I knew he wasn’t scared of the possibility. Because he didn’t run away after I admitted that; if anything, we grew even closer than before. 

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear the front door open. I used to be terrified whenever Craig came home. At least at first. It’s just the noise of a door opening, it’s always made me nervous. But not anymore. 

He fusses about in the hallway, probably hanging up his coat and kicking off his shoes. When I feel his presence in the room, I don’t turn to look at him. I pretend I didn’t hear him come in, and maybe he buys it. I don’t know anymore. His footsteps near me, and then I feel his hand curling on my shoulder as he gently turns me to face him.

“Hi, honey,” Craig greets, leaning down and pressing a kiss to my lips. 

I kiss him back, sinking into his affection. Fuck. It feels like forever since he’s kissed me. Which is stupid, because he kissed me this morning when he left for work, but lately, it feels like whenever he’s gone, he’s gone forever. And it’s also the thought of _ where _he might be that kept me anxious all day.

But I pull back as soon as his scent hits me: he smells like axe body spray. Craig doesn’t wear axe body spray. I never deny Craig kisses, but his smell . . . I can’t handle it, it’s too much. “Hi.” I turn back to dinner, and resume stirring the half-cooked pasta, keeping my eyes fixed to the oddly mesmerizing sight of boiling water. 

Craig’s arms wrap around my waist, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “You seem down. What’s the matter?”

I shrug. What am I supposed to say? Everything’s the matter. Where am I supposed to start? What does he want to hear? “Long day, I guess.”

“Want me to make it better?” 

Before I can answer, his lips start pressing against my skin, and I try with every fiber of my being not to be affected by him. I’m too tired to give in, but he’s so warm, and the way he moves is so familiar and reassuring, and the small little noises that reach my ear send vibrations down my spine, and, before I can stop it, I drop the stirrer into the pot and clutch at his large hands, which are stroking along my stomach and waist, and I hold them in place. 

“Craig, stop,” I say, as firmly as I can, which really isn’t all that firm. I’ve always craved Craig’s touch and his voice and him in general, and that’s never changed. It’s only gotten worse, and it’s always hard to push him away, but I can’t get his smell out of my head.

He chuckles, but he listens, straightening up, and withdrawing. “Dinner smells good.”

Dinner isn’t even half finished yet. It doesn’t smell like anything. I take deep breaths, and turn back to the stove, trying to calm myself enough to function. “Thank you.” 

We’re both quiet. 

“What did you do today, babe?” Craig asks, and I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s loosening his tie, on the opposite end of the kitchen table, and he tosses it away carelessly. And he’s staring me, and there’s this look in his eyes, and I can’t tell for sure what it says. “Did you enjoy your day off?”

I nod, placing the glass cover on the pot as the pasta was good enough to simmer. Untying my apron, I join him at the table. I give him a smile, and he gives me one back. “You really didn’t miss much.”

“I missed you.”

I roll my eyes, propping my chin up in my straightened palm. “Charming.”

Craig grins and leans forward on his elbows, and it’s when he does things like that that makes me think that maybe things can be okay. It’s like we’re sixteen again, on our first date to Denny’s on a Thursday night after getting caught in the rain by the bus stop, except today we’re in our kitchen and we’re not sopping wet.

“How was work?” I ask before I can stop myself. I know the answer, before he even says anything, because it’s _ always _ the same thing. And me asking _ always _ruins every good mood. We’re walking on eggshells around each other, dancing around an unspoken truth. 

“Tiring,” he says finally, letting out a short breath, like work was where he just was. We both know the truth, but neither of us want to say it out loud. 

“Oh. Why did your boss want you to stay late?” Fuck, I’m only making it worse, and I know I’m only making it worse, but I can’t stop. 

“Last minute meeting,” is Craig’s ambiguous answer. “Something about monthly statistics, and how we’re falling behind, or whatever. I don’t know, I was too excited to come see you to pay attention.”

It’s sweet. It’s suave. And I believed that the first ten times. But after that, it was too obvious. Even lovestruck me wasn’t that dumb. 

And, awesome, now we’re stuck in the most painful silence imaginable. I can’t look at him, because I don’t know what my face looks like, and I don’t want to see his reaction to what my face looks like. I made everything awkward by asking that stupid fucking question. Why that question has to be awkward isn’t my fault though. Asking your husband how his day at work was shouldn’t make the room heavy and uncomfortable. It should spark rants about dumb coworkers, or ignite witty anecdotes at someone tripping in the office or something. Not make the heaviest of all silences beat down on the both of us. 

Finally, after too long, Craig asks, “How much longer till dinner?”

I sigh. “Fifteen minutes maybe? Twenty tops.”

“Okay. I think I’m gonna shower then. I’m all grimy from work.”

I wince. I don’t want to know what that means. 

If Craig notices my falter or whatever, he doesn’t show it. But, then again, Craig hardly shows anything, and, even though I consider myself to be a Craig expert, I’m too distracted by everything to really search for a change. 

My eyes lift when Craig’s chair scratches out from the table as he stands. 

I expect him to walk through the kitchen door towards the stairs, but instead, he makes his way around to me and kneels beside me. 

Craig takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and gazes at me, that familiar fondness in his eyes. “I love you.” He presses a gentle kiss to my lips, and I kiss him back. There’s not a chance that I would ever not kiss him back, because one of my biggest fears ever is him never coming home from work because he found someone else, all because I denied him that one kiss, because I wasn’t enough, because I’m _ not _ enough, because there’s always someone _ better_. 

And when he pulls back I try to give him a smile. “I love you, too.”

He gives me a soft smile, but then straightens up and leaves the room.

I bite my lip to keep myself to myself. 

* * *

By the time Craig comes downstairs from his shower, in a pair of sweatpants and a blue hoodie, zipped halfway, dinner is ready. I’ve already rationed it out between us, and, while I was waiting, I started dicking around on my phone, scrolling through the news and rolling my eyes at every single news headline. 

As Craig passes by me to get to his side of the table, I inhale sharply, and breath a sigh of satisfaction. He smells like his shampoo and body wash. He smells like Craig, and that God awful cologne is gone. It kinda feels like he smashed down the Berlin Wall, and I can act somewhat normal again. 

“You, uh. Feel better?” I ask as he plops himself into the chair opposite me.

He smiles. “Yeah. You waited for me?” 

It takes a second for me to figure out what he’s talking about. “Oh! Yeah, I wanted us to eat together.”

“That’s sweet.” He sounds so sincere. 

I’ve never known what to say when he says things like that, so I just stay silent, and turn my attention to my dinner. I take a bite and, after the first couple chews, I cringe. It’s disgusting. I look at Craig, and I can tell by the look on his face that he agrees, but he keeps chewing, like he’s worried he’d hurt my feelings if he says he doesn’t like it. 

“I cooked it for too long,” I state, dropping my fork onto my plate. How the fuck do you fuck up _ spaghetti_? What kind of fucking idiot can’t put a noodle in some hot water and turn off the hot water when the noodle’s are soft? How the fuck is that so hard? The easiest dinner I could’ve scrounged up with the low energy I’ve had today, and that’s what I end up with? 

It’s moments like this that maybe I understand where Craig’s coming from. 

Craig forces a smile. “It’s not that bad.”

I give him an unimpressed glare. “Craig, it’s disgusting.” 

Craig’s fake smile withers and he looks away. “So maybe it’s not your . . . best, but that doesn’t --”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt, grabbing a napkin and wiping irritably at my face, even though there’s nothing on my face except for skin. I appreciate him trying, though. “You don’t have to lie.” . . . anymore than you already do. 

“We can just have cereal for dinner,” Craig offers with a casual shrug. “We’ve still got a whole box of Lucky Charms.” He smiles. “You can have all the rainbow marshmallows, okay?”

Even though that sounds like a nice idea, and it’s very sweet of him to try to move passed all this without drawing attention to the fact that I completely failed at the most simple meal, my face falls and I clear my throat as I avert my eyes to . . . somewhere that isn’t Craig. I mean, today was my entire day off, and I can’t even make dinner. I had all day to make dinner, and I spent all of it doing nothing. I remember Craig kissing me just before he left for work this morning, which was at about 8:30. I remember him telling me that he loves me, and that he’ll see me later. And then I fell back asleep, and then it was noon. And then I stared at the ceiling for awhile, and then it was one in the afternoon. And then I crawled out of bed, sluggishly pulled a pair of jeans on, and trudged down to the living room. And then I collapsed on the couch and watched The Office until I got Craig’s text, just before 5:00, saying he was going to be late coming home. And then I stared at the “Are You Still Watching” screen for awhile until I realized that maybe I should actually try to make some actual food. And by then I was so distracted that I could hardly think straight, and now here I am. 

“It’s okay, babe,” Craig says, kissing the top of my head. “Everyone has their days. Besides, we can sit in the living room and watch Netflix. I hear there’s this great new show about --”

And then his words blend together, and I’m so caught up with everything that I don’t think I can properly focus anymore. I had all that time -- all that fucking time -- when Craig was off with . . . off with someone else, and I couldn’t even . . . not even spaghetti, I didn’t even make sauce, I didn’t even cut up vegetables, or toast some bread, or anything like that, it was just spaghetti, and I _ fucked it up_.

I . . . I bet whoever Craig was with wouldn’t --

I shake my head quickly, hard enough that I need to blink a few times to shake the dizzy out of my mind. No, that’s bad to think about. I can’t think about that, so, before I can really process the fact that maybe Craig is already talking, I blurt out, “Yeah that sounds good.” I realize a little too late that I had just completely interrupted him. 

But Craig just stops talking and smiles, so obviously whatever he was just saying wasn’t that important. “You were off in your head again, weren’t you?” He says this like it’s some endearing quality of mine, but if he knew where my mind just was, he wouldn’t find my distraction all that charming. 

But it’s a way out, so I shrug and try to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey.” That’s the second time he’s said that in, like, five minutes. I hate how often he feels the need to say that, and I hate how often I need to hear it. “I was just asking what you wanted to watch. You seem like you’ve had a bad day, and I want to make you feel better.”

I don’t want to ask for anything, but if I ask for too much, I’ll come off too needy, and if I come off too needy, then Craig will just have another reason to go to someone else, and I can’t have that, so I just shrug again. “I don’t mind.”

“How about The Office?” Craig offers. “I know you love that show.”

I do. I think it’s funny. But I don’t really want Craig to see how long I watched it today, because that would just make my sorry excuse for dinner seem even less justifiable. “How about Criminal Minds? I know you --”

“We’re watching The Office,” Craig states, gently talking hold of my forearms and drawing me from my chair to my feet. I let him move me for two reasons: 1) I don’t really have a lot of energy and it’s nice being able to move without having to actually do much, and 2) I fucking love Craig’s hands, and how warm he is, and how gentle he touches me. “I’m going to make your day better, okay?” The fact that the question he poses is really more like a statement of intent sends a warmth up and down my spine and I smile. 

“I’ll get the stuff, you go start the show, okay?” he asks, gesturing with his head to the living room. 

I nod, and turn away towards the living room, but, before I can get too far, he grabs my hands, and pulls me back into him. Before I can ask what’s going on, my body is pressed against his, and I’m being kissed. I . . . can’t say I was expecting that, really, but I’m definitely not opposed. 

After a few seconds, Craig slowly pulls back. He releases one of my hands and gently grasps my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up slightly. “You’re perfect, you know.”

I don’t believe him, but I allow myself to listen without interrupting my own attention. He doesn’t say anything else, though, and he just looks at me for a few more moments, before he lets go of me entirely. “Now, hurry up,” he says, gently nudging me in the direction of the living room. “I’m starving.”

A wide smile comes to my face. It’s so wide it almost hurts my cheeks. “Okay.”

By the time I had Netflix queued up, Craig was entering the living room with the box of cereal, two bowls, two spoons, and a gallon of milk somehow balanced in both hands. He quickly sets everything down, and a laugh bubbles in my chest. He hurried in because he thought he was going to drop everything. I love how easily I can read him sometimes, even if my abilities seemed to have lessened as of late. 

I hand Craig the remote when he sits down, and he quietly observes what episode I left off at. Raising an eyebrow, he turns to me and teases, “Had a marathon today?” 

I swallow and avert my eyes away. That was what I was worried about. I don’t answer him. 

Craig wraps an arm around me and pulls me close to him and I sigh. He’s so large and strong and warm and I could curl up under him and sleep for hours. “If I had today off, I would’ve been right here with you. A TV marathon with my handsome husband for hours? That sounds amazing.”

He’s trying to make me feel better, because I’m such an open book that everyone can always tell whenever I have a single emotion. Which is, I don’t know. Good, I guess. Or maybe it’s bad. “It would’ve been more fun with you,” I answer, and it’s probably the most truthful thing I’ve said today. 

* * *

We’re on our second episode, and I still haven’t even really touched my ‘dinner’. Craig’s on his second bowl, and it’s almost gone. 

I swirl my cereal around lackadaisically, staring at the pile of rainbow marshmallows that pool in the middle of my bowl. I’m not really all that hungry, but Craig apparently _ still _is, because the small intervals between the moments his spoon dips back into his bowl are short, and I can actually hear him chewing. 

“You’re not eating.”

I glance over at Craig. He’s staring at me, his brow lifted and his lips quirked to the side, and it looks like he’s worried. I shrug, (I’ve been doing that a lot today), and just say, “Not really hungry.”

Craig keeps staring at me. And he keeps staring at me, and staring at me, and staring at me, and I start to fidget under his constant _ staring_. “What?”

“Have you eaten at _ all _today?”

My brain draws a blank, because, um. Huh. 

Wow. I, uh. Guess I haven’t really eaten at all. Didn’t even have a cup of coffee. I was horizontal for 95% of my day, and that 5% didn’t include getting food, which meant none of the 95% entailed putting anything in my mouth. I don’t really have an actual explanation for why I’m running on empty, so all I come up with is a simple, “‘Guess I forgot.”

“You _ forgot _to eat?”

It sounds so ridiculous when someone else says it. “I guess.”

Craig looks . . . annoyed. But I don’t know why? He suddenly stands up and takes my bowl from my hands, setting it on the coffee table. “I’m making you some actual food,” he declares, moving the remote so it’s closer to me and making his way to the kitchen. 

As fast as my sluggish body can manage, I push the blanket off of me and hurry after him. I somehow catch him before he enters the kitchen, and I grab hold of his forearm, keeping him in place. “Craig, you don’t have to --”

“I do have to,” he responds, and he still sounds annoyed, and I hate that, because if he thinks he _ has _to make me dinner, then I’m just some parasite that’s clinging to his shoulder, and I really, really don’t want to be a parasite. 

But then his face softens, and he says, “You need to eat, honey. You’re not allowed to forget. You’ll get sick, and you always hog the blankets when you’re sick.” I’m pretty sure he’s joking, which is a good thing. It means he’s not angry, and it means he doesn’t think I’m an obligation. 

“But, Craig, I’ve already got cereal; you _ really _\--”

“The more you tell me not to, the more I’m going to want to,” Craig interrupts, and the stubborn look in his eye tells me I’m not going to win.

I sigh, clutching at the NASA t-shirt that I stole from Craig’s drawer tightly. “Don’t do too much. I don’t want you to do too much.”

He smiles, and leans down, pressing a slow kiss to my lips. I lift up on my toes to meet him, and relish in the brief contact before he pulls away. “I won’t do too much. Go lay back down. I won’t be long.”

I hesitate to let him go, but I eventually do, watching as he enters the kitchen and leaves me alone in the living room. 

He comes back twenty minutes later, carrying a plate of waffles and a bowl of scrambled eggs, a fork clutched between two fingers, and he’s sporting a pleased smile. I smile back; breakfast food is my absolute favorite, and Craig’s forte in the kitchen is breakfast food, so everything works out. It’s one of the only things left in my life that actually works out. 

I stare at the food as Craig places it on the coffee table, and my mouth starts to water. Before either of us can say anything, my stomach growls, and Craig chuckles quietly. “Good. You’re hungry. Eat.”

I pick up a waffle and tear it in half, shoving part of it straight into my mouth. It’s fucking delicious, like Craig’s breakfast food always is, and I hum, satisfied. I glance over at Craig; he’s watching me with a soft expression on his face and it makes my heart swoon. I love it when he looks at me like that. 

“How is it?” he asks, sitting back down beside me. 

Of course he asks me that right as I’m in the middle of chewing. “Issgud.”

He laughs again, and I quickly chew so I can speak, a much needed utterance of gratitude that definitely should’ve come before me shamelessly forking down the food he had made me. I swallow as soon as I think I can, and give him a huge smile. “Thank you.”

He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. “Don’t thank me. Just eat.”

And that’s probably the easiest thing I’ve done all day.

* * *

Craig and I watch The Office for several more hours. My attention shifts between the actual show itself, and the feeling of Craig sitting next to me, solid and real and there. At about 11:30, we both decide it’s probably time to go to sleep; Craig’s got work in the morning, and, even though I have tomorrow off, (_two days off in a row_), my entire body is still extremely tired, even though I didn’t do anything at all today. 

Craig washes the dishes. I offer to help him, but he says no. 

“But, Craig --” I start, but Craig just shakes his head. 

“I made dinner, I clean up. It’s the rules. Besides, you didn’t want me to cook in the first place. Why would I make you clean up?”

What he says makes sense, but I still feel bad, and I try to explain my case, but Craig interrupts me before I can say a single word. “I’m not going to let you wash the dishes.” His voice is all firm again. “Okay?”

It’s not like I can argue with that. He used his _ even though I usually take your opinion into consideration, there is no way you are going to be able to change my mind_, voice, so I just give up. 

* * *

It’s really, really dark outside when it’s night time. Especially when you live in a smaller town, where basically everything dies at 9pm, all lights turning out and nothing but the stars and the moon to light the sky, absolutely nothing is visible at all. 

The only light in our bedroom is the dim lamp in the corner, and I stare at the shadows cast on the walls and ceiling. It’s the first time I’ve really been left to my own thoughts since Craig got home. Even when he was making me dinner, I was watching The Office, and had some kind of distraction, even if it only worked part of the time. But waiting for Craig to finish brushing his teeth’s like torture, because I have nothing to occupy my mind, and, even though it’s only been a few moments, my brain has been a dick all day today, and I get lost in the thoughts that I try not to think. 

It’s been three months. _ Three months. _ I can’t even wrap my head around that. And maybe it’s been even longer, because that’s just how long I’ve known about it.

And just the thought . . . just the _ thought _ of Craig doing that for _ longer _than three months. I try not to think about it, but, I don’t know, there’s something about tonight, I can’t get it out of my head. I was already having a bad day before, and it just got worse, and now here I am, and I just . . . I don’t know.

Is he going to a gay club and seeing a different person every time? Is he seeing the same person? Do they look like me? Do they not look like me? Do they go to dinner first, or see a movie, or go for walks in the park? On nights that Craig comes home really late, (after dinner late), does he take them star watching?

Do they go on dates?

Does he hold their hand? 

Do they kiss? 

Does he . . . is he in love?

Whoa . . . whoa, no, I can’t, not that, I can’t . . .

I take long, deep breaths; I don’t want to freak out, I don’t want to give Craig anymore reasons to go see someone else. But as he settles behind me, his arm wrapping around my waist and his face pressing against my neck, it’s hard to keep it all in.

And I can’t help it. I can never help it. I’m not like Craig; I can’t keep my emotions to myself, so, rather than soak my tears back into my eyes like a Mr. Clean sponge, they come pouring down my cheeks in torrents, and choked sobs wheeze into the silent night air. 

Craig is awake in an instant, movements hurried as he sits himself up, and pulls me with him. He doesn’t say anything. Craig has put up with me long enough to know how to deal with me when I freak out. Instead of bombarding me with questions, he holds me to his chest as I sob, his fingers combing through my hair, and he gently rocks me side to side. I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek. I’m not sure if it makes me feel better or not, but I can’t get that fucking image out of my mind, of Craig kissing someone else, of him telling someone else that he loves them, I can’t do it! It’s not fucking fair! How can he do this to me, and act like it’s okay? 

Craig holds me, until I’m just a slobbering mess, nothing but a sniffling child, and then pulls back slightly so he can see my disgusting face. “Honey? Are you okay?” he asks gently, brushing some of my gross, sweaty, teary hair out of my eyes, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows I’m not, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows why. 

I swallow, and it’s like somehow the entire Sahara Desert has invaded my larynx. I shake my head quickly, both to answer his question, and to try to clear my mind from the insane amount of thoughts that won’t leave me alone. 

Without asking, I climb into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, and I just cling to him like he’s my fucking lifeline. “Can you just hold me? Please, can you just hold me?” I whimper, so quiet, that at first I’m not entirely sure he heard me, but then he lets out a shaky sigh, and his arms tighten around me, so tight I think I might pop, but that’s okay. 

It’s better than nothing. 

We sit like this for awhile. I don’t know how long, but Craig doesn’t pull away, and he barely moves at all, and I’m pretty sure at least one of his limbs must’ve fell asleep. But he doesn’t let me go, and I don’t let him go. 

After awhile, (a long while; my best estimate is around fifteen minutes), I pull back, just enough so I can feel his warm breath on my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as they can go because I don’t want to see what’s looking back at me. “I love you.” I can’t bring my voice above a whisper. “Craig, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Tweek.”

I shake my head and press my lips together, because sometimes, I just can’t believe him when he says that. Because if he loves me, he wouldn’t be doing what he’s doing. He would come home to me, and he would smell like his own cologne, and he would actually tell me about his days at work instead of giving me vague generalizations. 

“I do,” Craig adds, his voice firmer than before, and, when I slowly open my eyes, he looks both determined and gentle at the same time. “I love you. So much that sometimes I can’t breath.”

I know what he’s talking about, because I feel like that on occasion. But there’s no way he’s telling the truth, so I ignore his statement to avoid getting lost in hope and possibilities that I know are futile and childish. “Craig, I’ve been, uh . . .” I manage, but my voice is too shaky and it slows to a stop. 

Craig watches me patiently, his long fingers still combing through my hair. 

I collect myself. “I’ve been missing you. Can you take tomorrow off from work? Please?” I don’t want to see his face when he answers me, so I lean down and press my forehead onto his shoulder, inching even closer to him. 

There’s a beat of silence, and I slowly lose all my hope. Not that there was much to begin with, but I did have some. _ Some_. 

But then finally he speaks. “I’ll call my boss tomorrow morning. See what I can do.” His voice is somewhat flat, but it’s truthful, and I believe him, but, just to be sure, I ask, 

“You promise you’ll call him?”

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I promise.”

I nod. Because that’s all he can do, really, is promise. 

We stay like that for awhile. I can feel his heart beat on my chest, and his breathing his steady and comforting and familiar. He’s so warm. And I can take some comfort in the fact that he is actually holding me. That I’m actually in his arms, because that means that he has to feel something for me, right? I mean, if he didn’t like me even a little bit, we wouldn’t be here right now. I still have at least part of his heart, and that’s good enough. 

I think. 

Maybe ten or so minutes later, I pull back, lifting my head up and shifting slightly away from him. “You . . . might have work tomorrow.”

Craig bites his lip, and says, “I promised I would call.” 

“But you didn’t promise he’d say yes.”

He sighs, but him and I both know that he can’t argue, so he doesn’t say anything. 

I let go of him, climbing out of his lap and rolling over onto my back, the mattress bouncing slightly under me. Craig follows suit, reclining back down and hovering over me, balancing on one elbow. I can feel his gaze penetrate me, sharp and . . . something else. I can’t tell what it is. It’s intense, but that’s all I can make of it. I try to study him, to figure out how he’s feeling. His eyebrows are furrowed. His mouth is relaxed, free of creases or frown lines or wrinkles. His eyes are half-lidded, but he doesn’t look tired. 

I don’t know what it means, but I’m also too exhausted to really hash out the details. He reaches out for me with his free hand, resting his palm gently on my stomach, but I don’t think I can keep looking at him. For some reason, it’s hurting more than it’s helping, so, despite the fact that the pressure of his hand is the perfect blend of hard and soft, I turn on my side away from him, pulling my arms into my chest. His hand moves from my stomach to my waist, wrapping around the curve and squeezing tight. 

Craig sighs deeply, and he sounds almost disappointed when he says, “Are you tired?”

“Yeah.” I’m not.

“Okay.” He pauses, almost like he’s unsure of what to do. As far as I’m concerned, he should think it’s nothing more than a normal night. He always thinks everything that he does, and everything that is done to him in his own bubble of reality, is normal. He would rather believe everything’s painfully ordinary as ever than admit or recognize that something’s wrong, that something’s flawed in the way we interact. Because, even though sometimes it feels the same, everything feels so different, and I hate it so fucking much. 

Maybe Craig hates it, too. I can’t tell. Maybe I don’t want to tell. 

Finally, Craig lowers down, leaning over me, and brings his arm all the way around my midsection. His voice is low and soothing when he says, “Even if he says I _ have _to go into work tomorrow, I’ll tell my boss that I need to leave right at 5:30. Because I have a husband to come home to. A husband who’s handsome,” he kisses my cheek, “and sweet,” he kisses my temple, “and loving,” behind my ear, “and funny,” the side of my neck, “and the most perfect person I’ve ever met.”

I’m sure he means well, but his words don’t make me feel good. They make me feel worse. Because if I’m all those things, then why does he . . .

I don’t want to think about it anymore, so I sigh, and nuzzle into the mattress, trying to get comfortable. Not that that’s easy. It’s just I’m not entirely sure I can stomach anymore waking interactions with him, so I lay still, and relish in the warmth of his body near me. For someone who’s so cold to the world around him, he really is the most comforting person to be with. 

The room is silent for a long time. Craig hasn’t fallen asleep yet; I can tell, because he isn’t fully laying on the bed, and I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. And I guess he must think I’m sleeping, because he leans in close and whispers, “Please don’t _ ever _ cry like that again. You break my heart.” There’s a brief pause, and then he adds, his voice choked with emotion, “I’ll be better, honey, I _ swear _I will.”

I don’t believe him. 

He gently kisses my cheek one more time, finally settling down, and then he says one more thing, his voice slow and lethargic, “I love you so much, Tweek.”

At least he’s still saying my name.

And with that thought at the front of my mind, I realize that not only do I not want to sleep, but I definitely won’t be able to. My head is too full. My heart is too heavy. I want to kick him out, but I never want him to leave. Ever. _ Ever_. 

And it’s not that I’m scared to live without him, it’s that I don’t _ want _to live without him. It’s that he’s been in my life for fifteen years, and I’m not ready for him to leave. It’s that nothing can ever replace him, and I don’t ever want anything or anyone to, ever. 

It’s kinda like what that old Leonard Cohen song that Jeff Buckley did better said. 

_ It’s not a cry that you hear at night. _

_ It’s not somebody who’s seen the light. _

_ It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah_. 

Except maybe we’re not broken yet. 

But I think I am. 


End file.
